It was at the end of a decade – escaped high school and the world was a mess.
Bodies packed inside of planes, draped with the American Flag:
Bodies were covered with beads, sweat, and the smell of grass.
On the knoll, near a carven – yet I found my own to conceal myself in stone, as your lips were branches of a tree, your finger’s pebbles, and my leg’s carried me away, as I ran from you – you see, you could not handle fear.
Did I, once love you? Thinking to the days of beads and smoke, in that old red car . . . recalling the stars on the American Flag hanging from your rearview window. America, it wasn’t free – nor was love, kissing branches of a tree.